


To My Detriment

by miraculan



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Dalish Elves, Gay Male Character, M/M, Magic, Pre-Relationship, Smoking, brief reference to homophobia, but very brief - Freeform, i wanted more elf stuff for an elf quizzy so i did it myself, minor character injury, rating may go up later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraculan/pseuds/miraculan
Summary: The Dalish Inquisitor has Dorian wrapped around his little finger. <3 A look into how the boys get together, and some exploration into Dalish culture and magic.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	1. The Muck and the Mire

Dorian could say without a shadow of a doubt that the Fallow Mire was the worst place he had ever been. Tevinter’s nearly perpetual balmy spring was a fever dream here in the wet, icy swamp. He kept his whining to a minimum, for now, although it had been a full day of little progress and the sun was (presumably) setting.

“How much further you think, Keeper?” Varric shouted over the deluge. “I’m swimming in my boots.”

“It grows colder as well.” Cassandra nodded.

“Huddle up, then, so we can check the map.” Lavellan replied, waiting until they were all shoulder to shoulder with Cassandra’s shield held aloft over their heads to open the map. Dorian’s fatigue must have been terribly obvious, his mage light dim and flickering between the four of them. He met Lavellans cat-gold eyes briefly, before the elf cast a mage light of his own to compensate.

“We are not too far from one of the campsites Scout Harding suggested.” Cassandra offered.

“We could push on, but you’ll slow us too much. I saw you hurt your knee on that last round of corpses, and you’ve been limping ever since.” Lavellan replied, barreling on at the first sign of her protest. “This far south, we risk the rain turning to sleet in the night.”

Dorian wearily shut his eyes, dropping his mage light to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He was low on mana, terribly bruised along his right side and wincing from a long gash on his back. To hear that even the Seeker herself was injured was both comforting and cause for concern.

“What’s this mark here?” Varric pointed, dampening a spot on the already mushy map.

“That is our next destination, Master Tethras. A nice cozy abandoned cabin. Plague ridden, of course. Maybe even haunted, if we’re lucky.” Lavellan smiled while putting away the map. His eyes caught the light like an animal as he turned to march on. 

Dorian leaned heavily on his staff but kept pace while Varric groaned about the possibly corpse-infested cabin. Now that Cassandra’s injury had been brought to light, she stopped hiding both the limp and her grimace.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Sparkler. How’s that back?” 

“Wet.” He replied, earning a chuckle from even the grim Seeker as they paraded further into the mire, tactfully avoiding both the water and the spires for the time being. 

“Remind me once more why you needed another mage on this venture, Master Lavellan?” Dorian called.

“Perhaps I am used to traveling with other mages and enjoy the conversation.” The other replied with a smile. Dorian was starting to find the elf’s accent incredibly charming and easy to listen to. 

“On another note,” Lavellan began, “I’m starting to believe that none of you know my first name.”

“Hera-,”

“Wrong, my name is not Herald, and I recall not enjoying the monicker.”

“I have,-seen it /written/ before.” Cassandra finally admitted.

“Ma-HEY-nuhn. Mahanon. Call me by my name, lest I forget it all together.”

“Thank you.”

Lavellan was right of course, by the time the cabin was in sight the rain had turned to sleet. It stuck in their lashes and hair, quickening their step to a jog to reach the door, shivering brutally while Varric picked the lock with cold-numbed fingers.

The door swung open to reveal what might as well have been an oasis. The old derelict house was free of corpses and spiders both. It smelled of mold but not of death, and though the air was cold the wind from outside did not pierce the walls.

Lavellan wasted no time lighting a large hearth with a flick of his wrist.

“Thank the Maker.” Cassandra sighed as the heat started to seep into the walls and wood.

“Alright, it’s too cold to stay in these clothes. You won’t warm up until they’re dry. Strip down as much as you can, I can promise it’s nothing any of us haven’t seen before. That beam hanging there that would make a good drying rack.” Lavellan sighed as he took off the outermost robe. “Cassandra I’ll want to look at that knee, if you’ll allow it and we’ll see about your back Dorian.” The elf sauntered up a ladder to the awning above them, muttering something about looking for blankets or skins.

Varric wasted absolutely no time disrobing, down to only his underthings and spread face-down on the floor nearest the hearth. He hadn’t bothered to hang his gear yet.

“This is more of you than I had hoped to see.” Said Cassandra, now seated in a rickety chair trying to get her boot off her bad leg. 

“You can look all you want, Seeker, but I draw the line at touching.” Varric replied without even turning his head.

Dorian turned to himself while they bickered, starting with the buckles on his pauldrons. He was layered enough that his under most clothes were still mostly dry, though all of his robes had to come off. The silk would be stained with the mud he feared, but he had time to mourn them when he was warmer.

Lavellan announced his return by dropping his sopping and icy robes onto Varric from above, who let out a dignified and manly squawk. He was down to the kidskin leggings he wore under his leg guards and a sleeveless linen shirt. Neither did anything to hide the figure that Dorian couldn’t believe he was just noticing for the first time. The thought was quickly discarded, however, at the sight of the pelts thrown over the elf’s shoulder.

“There were no blankets but plenty of deer skin.” He said, draping the smallest over Varric as an apology for his previous mischief.

Cassandra out of her plate was no less intimidating, all muscle and scars. Only in a cotton shirt and cotton pants, she looked like she could still take down a qunari in single combat.

“Let’s start with your knee, Cass.” Lavellan said, kneeling down in front of the seeker who blushed tremendously at the position. Dorian hid a laugh behind a cough and went to hang his outer robes near Varric, who was feigning sleep and chuckling and the proceedings.

“It’s swollen.” Their leader tsked. Like an old woman looking at a child’s scrape. “Normally I would ice it, but I can’t risk the cold until you’re warmer. Dorian, there’s a salve in my pack with a yellow marking on it, will you hand it to me?”

“Of course.” The Herald had more empty bottles in his pack than full ones, proof of their trying trek through the mire. There was only one left, so hopefully it was the one they needed.

“Ma serannas.” He replied, not taking his eyes off the knee, using one hand to probe the joint with magic.

While Lavellan worked and Cassandra winced, Dorian took the time to drink in the Herald unarmored. There was more skin to look at now, deep gold amplified by the hearth fire. He could see now the Dalish elf was not only tattooed on his face, but presumably from the neck down as well. His hair was always bound tightly away for combats sake but now it was loose and wild, hitting all the way down to his waist in raven tendrils just starting to dry. 

Varric cleared his throat, now Dorian’s turn to look away, though he staunchly refused to blush. 

“Varric, are you hurting anywhere?” Lavellan asked, folding Cassandra’s pant leg back down and using a stool to prop up the leg.

“Only my pride, Keeper.”

“Splendid, move off the rug. I need Dorian flat to look at that gash.”

“Master Lavellan, I am a gentleman. I’ll lie down for no man without the proper dinner.” Dorian teased, even as he began taking the grouchy dwarfs place by the fire.

“Oh so now you’re too good for the week old dried goat in my pack?”

“That was the one time!” He insisted, though laughs were already being exchanged on his behalf.

“If I remember correctly I might have partaken as well. It might be more likely that we ate a shoe by mistake.” Cassandra said without opening her eyes.

As soon as Dorian was bare to the waist and flat, he winced as a freezing cold hand inspected the slash, which bled lazy over his sides even now.

“That looks nasty, Sparkler, you shoulda said something earlier.” said Varric.

“This was the earliest opportunity, believe it or not.” He argued.

“Are all the Dalish mages trained healers?” Cassandra asked, genuine curiosity this time instead of the suspicion she usually met magic with.

“Not all. Those of us in line to be Keepers are certainly encouraged to.” Mahanon replied. “Though my knowledge is fairly basic. Clan Lavellan in particular has a healer already, and that healer has an apprentice. It was not dire that I learn it.” As he talked he worked at cleaning the wound, which was coming to life in a manner most painful in the warmth of the cabin.

“I thought the Dalish turned away excess mages.” 

“I’ve heard of some who do,” he began in a mumble, “but my keeper is young still, and I was old enough to teach the youngest mages in her absence.”

“Daisy was certainly not a trained healer.” Varric huffed, searching his pack for any dry foodstuffs.

“The first from Sabrae? I met her once, a brilliant mage. She would have done well as a keeper given more room to grow.”

“The blood mage? I think not.” Cassandra scoffed.

“Blood magic is astonishingly useful at knitting flesh back together, given that the mage has a firm grasp on anatomy. And usually whoever needs stitching up is already bleeding anyway.”

Cassandra and Dorian both began protesting immediately, words scrambling together as Dorian attempted to rise up to his elbows, only to be flattened once more by a surprisingly firm hand.

“I am not going to do that now, obviously.” Dorian could hear Mahanon roll his eyes, but the Tevinters heart rate was still up from the panic. “That would be for emergency only, which this is not.”

As soon as Dorian’s anxiety reached a crescendo, he melted into the sudden and soothing sensation of healing magic, cool and warm together at once like peppermint and ginger.

“When did you meet Merrill?” Varric said in an attempt to smooth the tension. 

“Our clans camped briefly together at Sundermount to trade, but when I heard she had gone into the city I followed to visit.”

“You were IN KIRKWALL? At my friend’s house?”

“For an evening, yes.”

“Ooh, what kind of evening?” Dorian asked with a wag of his eyebrows, recovered from his previous panic. He was expecting a sarcastic remark but was met with a very charming boyish giggle.

“Not that kind of evening. A wild one all the same, we were with the mage underground until dawn.”

“You were IN KIRKWALL, met Daisy AND Anders, and I NEVER heard anything about it??”

“You were smuggling mages out of the gallows?” Cassandra asked in distaste.

“You can’t ‘smuggle’ people. Anders told Merrill of an elven woman being regularly abused in the circle. Merrill went to Marathari, who could hide the mage for a time but not for long. I have no doubt the Templar’s in Kirkwall wouldn’t have hesitated to storm Sundermount for one mage. So once up the mountain, Clan Lavellan was to take her away from the city. Originally we were going to take her to the coast where she’d sail for Rivain, but-,”

“Yes?” Cassandra asked, practically at the edge of her seat despite her original protest.

“She fell in love with one of our hunters, Ellana. The Keeper saw it and offered her a place among the people as a healer, if she would be willing to train apprentices. She’s been with us since then. In her last letter the Keeper said they had been married. I wonder if I could send a gift...”

While Cassandra and Varric argued about appropriate wedding gifts of all things, Dorian was struck silent. Two women were /married/ without preamble? Was this a Southern occasion, or simply a practice among the Dalish? A sigh of relief seized him before he could quiet it.

“Does that feel better?” Lavellan said, taking his hands off of the other mage before he could mourn the loss.

Dorian sat up and stretched his neck and shoulders. The gash was healed over completely, and the bruising on his side now only a dull ache when he moved just so.

“Yes, you have my thanks.” He smiles as he redressed.

“I would like to sleep closest to the door, if at all possible.” Cassandra said as Lavellan stood, cleaning his hands with a rag.

“Fine with me. Use your pack to keep that leg elevated. Varric there are two cots upstairs, if you’d like one.”

“I will not be dragged away from this fire again until morning, Lavellan, even if there was an imperial mattress up that ladder.” 

“More for us then.” He said as he swatted Dorian on the arm. The storm raged on outside as he climbed after the elf. 

................................................................

Dorian huffed and rolled over in his cot, which was in itself a generous word. It smelled of damp hay and of sheep, but held well enough under his weight thankfully.

“Can’t sleep, Dorian?” 

Upon opening his eyes he saw Mahanon sitting up in his own cot smoking his pipe and reading a book by conjured veil fire.

“I am embarrassed to say, but I am unaccustomed to these sleeping conditions.”

“No need to be embarrassed, The Grand Enchanter herself was all but sleepless in the Hinterlands and all the more fickle for it.” He smiled, and Dorian was charmed once more.

“I have a question about your story from earlier.” 

“I’m sure I have an answer.” he replied, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. 

“You said those two women were married?”

“Yes.”

“Is that...-is that common in the south? Two women. Or two men.” 

Mahanon seemed to take time to formulate an answer, taking another lazy puff from his pipe and closing the book in his lap.

“It’s not /uncommon/ among the Dalish. Perhaps smaller clans might place more value on child-bearing pairs, but Clan Lavellan has always been quite...prolific in population booms.” At Dorian’s raised eyebrow he continued. “I have three brothers and four sisters. Most families are large. Not every pair would need bare a child for survivals sake. I have never married but have been with women and men alike. I was never scolded for either one, but I cannot speak for the shemlen here. Though I thought for certain the alchemist had a husband?” He mused, mumbling a bit before he turned back to his book.

“It isn’t spoken of in Tevinter. It would be something to hide there, an affair to have on the side.” Dorian confessed.

“You’d think at some point Tevinter would take a look at any one of its morally condemning flaws instead of finding something irrelevant to police the people over.”

“Perish the thought.” 

They lapsed into a peaceful silence. The fire cracked below, Cassandra and Varric snored quietly, the sleet still pattered on the roof.

“Can you not sleep either?” Dorian asked in a softer voice.

“I’ve always been a night owl.”

“True of all mages, yes?”

“Naturally.”

After another sleepy pause, Lavellan closed his book a final time and extinguished both the pipe and his veil fire, plunging the room back to the orange glow of the fire down below.

“Truth be told, I can’t sleep away from the camp. It’s too quiet, and I fear I’ll need to leap to action at any given moment.” 

“The cacophony of their snoring isn’t loud enough for you?” Dorian laughed.

“The clan had shifts. Can’t leave the camp unguarded at night. The keeper was in charge during the day, overseeing trade and supplies and such. I was in charge overnight, so the guards and hunters would have a mage should they need one. I’m used to sleeping during the day.”

“You lead a fascinating life, Master Lavellan.” Dorian smiles softly.

“To my detriment, it seems. You can call me Mahanon.” The elf stood, light on his feet, to peer over the ledge to their sleeping companions below. He then turned to the wall to peer out of a slightly larger crack. 

Dorian’s eyes were growing heavy as he watched the elf begin to rebraid his long hair. A repetitive and soothing motion, working all the way down to his hip before he pinned it up, tucking it all away and disguising its length once more. 

“Sleep for a while, ma falon, it is nearly dawn.” Was the last softly spoken words Dorian heard before he drifted off, safe enough for now with the smell of sheep skin and pipe smoke lingering in his nose.


	2. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant mountain stroll

They had cleared just enough ground to turn back and watch the mountain fall.

Or so it seemed. The avalanche took down pine stone and village alike, though now they could see nothing but snow where the burning Haven used to sit. The quiet settled, no more creaking trees or crumbling rock, no more crack and pop of fire, no beating wings of the dragon. The only sound the harsh wind and the howling of distant wolves.

A single woman began wailing in horror, and that’s all it took to shock the masses out of their numbness. The faithful wept and screamed. Dorian knew they wept for Haven, they wept for the Chantry, they wept for the Inquisition, for their lost cause. But Dorian only thought of Lavellan.

Outstandingly controversial from the start, a Dalish elf spearheading the efforts against the breach. A mage, no less. The chantry loathed him. The nobles turned up their noses. Even the advisors seemed to dig their heels in at his suggestions. Recruiting Dorian and allying with the mages was only the start. It seemed he lived to rock the boat.

But no one ever left Haven disliking him.

He was quick to smile and he had a firm handshake. The Orlesians admired his grace and poise, and the Fereldans valued his playful jabs and hearty laughter. Even Chantry sisters were enchanted by the myths he swapped with them around the campfire, talking with his hands and using his staff to gesture.

Golden-eyed and golden-souled, dead under 20 feet of snow. Dorian was numb for Haven, but he managed to shed a tear for Lavellan. He hoped he wasn’t the only one.

It was Cullen who moved them all to action, after someone spotted torches in the far distance. 

“We cannot linger here!” He shouted, a true commander, though even his voice broke under the strain. Mother Giselle tried to comfort the mourners while encouraging them to walk, to get off of their knees until they were safe. Dorian numbly followed the crowd, cold and limping. No one walked with him, nor checked on him, still suspicious of a Tevinter mage in their ranks. Perhaps now even more so. Even still, he helped a few weeping mages out of the snow, falling behind them so they would keep pace in front of him. The next crumpled heap he came upon was their darling ambassador, crying so hard her whole body heaved with it, face nearly touching the ground.

“My dear lady, we must march on.” He said softly, lifting her by one of her arms. She was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was all but loose and full of snowflakes, there was a hole in her stockings and a black eye on the left side. Cullen has given her his cloak and she shivered violently underneath it. If she was shocked at his assistance she didn’t say so, just walked slowly along with him until he spotted Leliana.

“Sister Nightingale!” He called hoarsely.

“Oh my sweet Josie!” She called, jogging to retrieve the shaken diplomat. “Thank you, Dorian, I was looking everywhere.” Her voice was wobbly and she sniffles from the cold. Thusly, he walked alone again.

...........

They had to make camp about a mile and a half out, too exhausted to continue the trek after the blizzard stole all their breath and strength. He sat in the healers tent with Solas, where all the uninjured mages were gathered. Here it seemed they couldn’t afford to turn away even his help, though he knew very little healing. He was reminded immediately of that mold-ridden soggy-wooded cabin in the mire where Lavellan tended to aches and pains like a mother hen. He quickly wiped away the tears that had sprung again.

“He could yet live.” Solas spoke softly.

“Naivety doesn’t suit you.” Dorian replied. 

Someone was shouting in the distance, an argument loud enough for all to hear. It was Sera, of all people, laying in to the advisors like a dog lord.

“Why didn’t you stay with him!” She screamed. To Dorian’s knowledge she had not been friendly with Lavellan. She disliked magic and the Dalish in equal parts, but here she was starting fires in his name. “If he’s the only one of you worth shite, why ain’t he here? You fall on your fucking swords for a shit town and a shit chantry, where’s his cryin’?” 

He didn’t think he could listen to it much longer, so he threw himself into the healing. He lent Solas his mana reserves for the most part, helped wrap bandages and made wards to heat the tents. He still cried, grateful no one attempted to comfort him again.

Most of the injured seemed to be soldiers and rebel mages. Dorian was being taught how to treat frostbite with very small amounts of magical heat on one of Fiona’s mages, a boy younger than twenty by the looks of him.

“Let me know if this gets too warm, I’m afraid the healing arts were never my strongest subject.” Dorian said to the endlessly patient teenager. 

“I will. Are you the magister they talk about?” The boy asked, the side of his blond hair stuck with blood.

“Yes.” He had no energy left to correct his terminology, after all what difference did it make to a Southerner?

“Thank you for helping us in Redcliffe. And now, too, I guess.”

It would have been natural for him to gloat and tease a bit, but he was tired and watery-eyed, cold down to the bone. So he only said his thanks in return as he worked.

There was a commotion near the pass, Cassandra and Leliana rushed it, weapons at the ready with Cullen trailing behind. If any of those Templar’s had followed them into the pass, it would be a slaughter unworthy of being called a battle. Dorian stood with his staff ready to meet them, but held back when he saw no red armor, just a single slim figure stumbling towards them. Poor bastard. He sat his staff back down and returned to work on heating the third healing tent, mindlessly putting up wards.

He was halfway done before he was quite literally trampled by Cassandra, Fiona, and Mother Giselle.

“Make room, quickly, we have little time.” The seeker said, laying their slim straggler on a few pelts nearest the already warded side of the tent.

He tried to peek at their unconscious patient, but Fiona appeared out of nowhere right in his eye line, holding up a thick spread of bandages wide.

“I need you to put the same wards across the bandages as on the tent.” She continued as he obeyed. “Wrap then around his middle, chest and stomach. There will be time enough to worry over extremities.” 

She went barking orders to several mages, Solas called for hot water while Cassandra waved him over with the heated wrappings.

Though he nearly dropped them.

It was Lavellan, recognizable only because they stripped him down, the only elf in Haven tattooed from head to toe. He was gray and unmoving, his shoulder out of place and tainted by a blackened bruise. What little of his face he could see was frost bitten, black hair matted with blood long since frozen. He looked like a corpse.

“Do not waver, Dorian, please!” Cassandra begged from the bed roll.

They found their hero, not alive and triumphant, not dead but dying.

Cassandra helped lift him to a sitting position while Dorian worked. He laid the bandages as flat as possible, as per instructed by Giselle. Maker he /felt/ like a corpse, skin almost too cold to touch. Once tightly wrapped, several furs were piled on top of the elf, likely donated from the backs of survivors, as well as Cullens heavy cloak making a second appearance. 

Solas sat perched by Mahanon’s head, trying to find a wound that would prove fatal if it was as bad as it looked. Cassandra hid it well, but Dorian saw her wipe away tears. For all their arguing on magic and mages and Makers, she cared for her companions deeply.

“Good news at last. There is a scar but no wound, meaning he knit the flesh together himself at some point.” Dorian shared a brief look with Cassandra, who actually sighed with relief despite the implication. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Dorian asked. He didn’t want to be asked to leave, though if he was truly more harm than good he would remove himself without fuss.

“Stay with him, at least until he starts shivering again. It will look painful but will calm. If he regains consciousness please send for Fiona or myself.” Solas said, standing and wiping his hands off on his leggings. 

“What should I tell the others?” Cassandra asked.

“He is stable.”

...............…..........

Four hours of violent shaking, one hour of ferocious trembling, another hour of teeth chattering, and Lavellan finally peeled his eyes open.

No sooner had he done so than Fiona began tilting his head this way and that to check his pupils for concussion. She seemed satisfied enough, for she tucked him back in proper and marched out to report her findings, leaving Dorian alone in the tent with their unwilling prophet.

He came to perch near the elf’s head to get off his feet for a while, or so he told himself.

“Master Lavellan, please stop trying to wiggle out of your furs.” He scolded, though the elf was too weak to even lift an arm.

“ ‘s hot..” he complained, though he stilled.

“You’re really not. If you recall you dropped a mountain on yourself then took a stroll through the Frostbacks.”

“Hmm.”

“You do remember that, yes?”

“...”

“Do you know where you are now?”

Mahanon once more strained to open his eyes, squinting like a cat in the sun. 

“I am starting to suspect,” he began, sighing and closing his eyes, “that I might be naked.”

Dorian couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. It must have alerted the advisors, for when they arrived in the tent Dorian had been removed. No rest for the wicked indeed.

...............................................................

“Brilliant, isn’t it? One minute you’re trying to restore order in a world gone mad, that should be enough for anyone to handle yes? And then, out of nowhere, an Archdemon appears and kicks you in the head!” Dorian ranged at the bookshelf, turning after being met with only silence.

“Am I speaking to quickly for you?”

“I was,-distracted.” 

“By my wit and charm?”

“Today, at least.”

“You wound me.” Dorian laughed, plopping down in the armchair he had officially claimed as his own before anyone else got the chance. “The /inquisitor/ is cheeky today.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes at the title, but smiled at him all the same. “Inquisitor Lavellan, I admit, has an excellent ring to it.” 

“Sure to boil the blood of every noble in Orlais when invoked.” Dorian agreed.

“That’s it’s charm, not it’s curse.” He laughed. “I can’t stay for long, the truth of my fluency in Orlesian has earned me several bonus meetings. I suspect Varric is to blame, but I digress. I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” Dorian replied, still grinning and shuffling through dusty tomes.

“I am told you kept an eye on me in the mountains. You’ve been a darling friend to me, and I plan on dragging you on several -if not multiple- miserable treks across Thedas in the coming weeks.”

Dorian did not let his shock play on his face for more than a moment while he got his bearings. The memory of finding their dear herald gray and cold and unmoving haunted him insidiously, even while here stood the same elf, bronzed and glowing and bright-eyed.

“So you’re saying remember this moment, because I’ll be cursing your name in another swamp soon?” 

“Precisely. I wouldn’t deprive you of your one true love, the Fereldan countryside.” Mahanon smiles, saluting casually before turning to walk back down the stairs. 

“You’re a right bastard, Inquisitor.” He called down after him, with a smile still stuck to his face, despite all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read! hmu on tumblr i have lots of Thoughts


	3. Just Like a Snake in the Grass

The new Inquisitor was sly.

Buttoned to the neck in finery and hair pinned atop his head, the people of Skyhold parted for him and bowed. They whispered their thanks, smiled in awe, shook his hand and patted his back. Some would point from across the courtyard as he greeted nobles and tradesmen alike from all over Thedas. Inquisitor Lavellan was hard to miss.

That is, until he wanted to be missed.

He must have thought himself terribly clever. Some days he would wear his hair long and loose, full of seemingly random braids and feathers and the occasional bead. He set aside his finery and wore only his loose linen undershirt and those strange elven leggings. No one parted for that man, no one tried to meet his eye. The people would mumble then, shocked that the Dalish would lend their aid to such an organization. Only the innermost circle would recognize him without regalia. It /was/ terribly clever. It did, however, lead to the occasional misunderstanding. The last occasion was an attempt to thwart Josephine’s attachés. He sat in plain sight, smoking with Varric at the table and playing cards while they turned the castle upside down looking for him. He played the fool when Josephine herself found him, claiming innocence while Varric laughed.

Dorian was coming down Skyhold’s steps into the courtyard when he heard an argument to his left near the stables. There was Mahanon, with two Dalish women behind him and an Orlesian noble in front of him. 

“A rest day! What nonsense! An excuse for you lazy knife-eared rats to shirk your duties. I will not ask again, I demand to speak with the advisors.” The noble ranted, pointing his finger this way and that. Dorian hurried down the steps, remaining in hearing range but not eye shot. He feared momentarily before he saw that all three elves looked not fearful but smug.

“Talk all you like, the Inquisitor himself does not work on rest days. It was his rule, to let the soldiers have a day of peace.” One of the women said, crossing her arms.

“No amount of oinking will change your fortune, Orlesian pig.” Said the darker elf woman, without inflection not expression.

At the exact moment the Orlesian raised his hand against them, Dorian cast a quick burst of magic, freezing the offending limb and torso. The noble turned his head in shock at Dorian’s approach, his arm paralyzed comically above his head.

“Good afternoon, Dorian.” Lavellan greeted, hands on his hips and grinning like any other day.

“Good afternoon ladies!” Dorian greeted first before turning. “Inquisitor Lavellan, would you like this man removed?”

The noble paled while the women held back laughter but not their grins.

“I couldn’t help but overhear, Your Worship, and I would be glad to offer further assistance if it is needed.” He continued. The two women talked between themselves of food, and wandered off in the direction of the kitchens. “Walk in peace, Keeper.” The dark woman said over her shoulder.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you Dorian.” Mahanon said as he snapped, a jolt of heated mana undoing the ice of Dorian’s spell, thus freeing the nobleman’s arm.

“Monsieur LaRoche, the Frostbacks have been kind to you. We expected you tomorrow afternoon, given the snowfall. As you have been informed once already, no one is working today save a few volunteers in the kitchen. No doubt you’ve been shown the quarters for you and your staff, I suggest you rest there yourself until the morning. Lady Montilyet and I will send for you in the morning at earliest convenience.” Mahanon said, perfectly poised. There was no venom in his voice but plenty in his eyes. “I trust there will be no further disturbances? If there is, I am bound to hear of it. After all, we elves have sensitive ears.”

“...right.” LaRoche nodded, favoring one arm and walking briskly out of the courtyard.

“I suppose you have him right where you want him when negotiating starts.” Dorian prompted unsuccessfully.

“Are you accustomed to coming to the aid of many elves, Messere Pavus?” Lavellan asked, his eyes still a bit hard and scrutinizing. A loaded question.

“No.” He answered honestly. “Though I learn more every day that I am here.”

The tension seemed to leave the inquisitor with a hefty sigh, finally meeting Dorian’s eyes.

“That is all I ask. For now, at least. And you’re right, LaRoche will be scrambling tomorrow. He’s here with his sister, who is the heir and landowner.”

“Hopefully more reasonable than her brother?” Dorian replied as they began to stroll the quartyard. Mahanon seemed to be steering them to the stables, to which Dorian only scrunched his nose.

“To my face, I’m sure she will be. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we now met with her alone.”

They reached the stables, passing a few sturdy mares before they reached Lavellan’s freckled beast of a hart, to which the elf fed several plums out of his pack. 

“Tripping over herself to right her brothers wrong with pleasantries and signed treaties?” 

“If I’m lucky.” He replied, patting the beasts neck before walking with Dorian once more, this time back towards the castle. “I think I fancy myself a drink, if you’d care to join me.”

“I would, though you’ve closed the tavern if you recall.” 

“Snow-melt and river water at the tavern anyway. I’ll meet you in the library, yes?”

................................................................

They were seated at a table near Dorian’s favorite chair in the otherwise vacant tower. Leliana was still no doubt in the rookery, as her agents were the only ones jogging up and down the stairs. 

Mahanon had a stash of Dalish honey whiskey, which the Dalish must have thought an incredibly funny misnomer, as it was the single spiciest liquor that Dorian had ever consumed.

“Maker’s balls.” He cursed at the first drink. Lavellan laughed at him, making a face at his own drink. It did get sweet at the end, almost overwhelmingly so, but it was a balm on his scorched tongue. 

“I was going to curse it again, but it’s growing on me.” Dorian said with a sniffle, taking a more conservative second sip.

“She’s mean, that one.” Lavellan agreed, gesturing at the bottle. They drank in silence for a while, comfortably. Feeling bold, Dorian looked his fill of the inquisitor. He was dreadfully handsome, it was all anyone talked about some days. The dark olive of his skin glowed gold in the torch-lit library and the light bounced off already golden eyes to make them practically glitter. 

“I couldn’t help but notice that your first sanctioned “Rest Day” coincided with your meeting of Varric’s mysterious contact.” Dorian said, after he’d been caught staring. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Caught on to that, did you?” Lavellan replied after a long pull of his glass.

“I am very observant. And you, Mahanon Lavellan, are conniving. A whole scheme in place to keep one Seeker of Truth indoors for the day.” 

Mahanon smiled brightly in the dim light, is ears twitching up in delight. “And got the rest of the day just to fuck off for a while.” 

“How did our hero manage all that, I wonder?”

“By bein’ beguilin’.” The elf replied, his accent getting thicker with the drink. Dorian smiled so big that it hurt his cheeks.

“You are terribly handsome as well, I’m sure that helps. Though something tells me you already know that.”

“Of all people, are /you/ accusing me of using my looks for schemes?” He laughed. “I can assure you I would never even dream of doing such a thing more than five or possibly six times.”

“Number seven definitely loses its charm.” Dorian nodded solemnly.

“Is that from personal experience?”

“Naturally.” He shrugged, polishing off glass number two.

Lavellan heaved our a great sigh, slumping in his seat and turning to face his drinking partner.

“My darling Dorian. Sweet, clever, brave Dorian-,”

“I am getting suspicious.”

“Will you come to Crestwood with me?”

“Ugh!” Dorian threw his head back.

“More undead in the Fereldan backwoods, you LOVE the Fereldan backwoods!” 

“I would rather die.”

“So you’ll come with me?”

“Of course.”

Suddenly Lavellan was standing in front of him, squishing Dorian’s cheeks with his hands. “Ma serannas, you beautiful bastard.” He let go with a gentle slap to one cheek and tugged Dorian up as well.

“Let’s get dinner before the chargers get there.”

And so they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short and a bit dialogue heavy but i had fun writing it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you'd like to chat, I'm on tumblr as miraculan-draws and I post art on there too.


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